The stillness of summer mornings holds its kind of mystery. During my early walks, just after dawn, the neighborhoods are quiet – almost reverent in the heat that is still to come. I look west, toward the mountains, eagerly scanning their silhouette like an old friend watching over kin. It’s as if, by observing them, I’m helping preserve the last snow still tucked into the crevices. That snow, a reminder of winter’s promise, glows faintly in the morning hush.
Sometimes, the peaks are hidden in clouds – those thick blankets that haven’t yet been pierced by the sun. It’s hot, close, almost pressing against the skin, and yet I’m drawn to the contrast: the immovable granite above, and the slow stirrings of life below. Nearly every day this time of year, a shift begins. Grey clouds appear like a whispered prophecy. Distant thunder rumbles low across the plains, and I find myself counting after the flash. One, two, three, four… it is four miles away and moving quickly.
Oddly, my heart quickens. It’s a feeling I liken to the thrill of the first dates that I had with my wife. That same mix of expectation and wonder still stirs inside me. The joy and what’s about to happen, but each storm has its way of delivering a message. At times, the wind might stay gentle, and a soft rain will cool the baked clay and dust that line the path. The trees stretch and sway, reaching out as if to catch the first drops. Flowers seem to open wider, their thirsty petals letting the rain gently wash the dust away. Their smiles seem brighter and prouder.
Not every day is so gentle. Just two days ago, the wind came fast, howling through our little town. The ash, catalpas and birch were hit with blasts of nearly cold, sharp wind like a sudden reckoning. Trees bent low, bowing under gusts heavy with purpose. Thick clouds raced across the sky like chariots full of water, anxious to release their burden. I couldn’t stay inside – never could. It’s part of who I am. As a boy, whenever it snowed, I’d get up in the middle of the night to see if it had continued. I’d press my face to the cold window, praying it would last long.
This storm wasn’t snow – it was summer’s offering. Ferocious, alive and deeply real. It battered the trees and sent rivulets of water coursing down the curbs. And even as I took cover under the porch, I couldn’t help but feel it was a gift – nature’s wild reminder that change can arrive with power and purpose.
In real estate, we don’t often talk about the weather. But I’ve learned that how people move through life – how they handle stillness, storms and sudden shifts – tells you everything about what kind of home they genuinely need. The decision to sell, relocate or downsize isn’t always about money. Sometimes, it’s about timing, like the early cloud that signals a shift. Sometimes, it’s about longing, like the parched soil praying for rain.
Whether you’re in a quiet stretch or feel like a storm is coming, you don’t have to figure it out alone. I’ve been through all kinds of seasons and walked beside others through theirs. If this summer feels like a turning point, maybe it’s time to talk. Together, we can find the place that fits your life – whether it’s shelter from the storm or a place to watch it roll in.
Because the right home doesn’t just protect you – it reflects who you are, and where your story is headed.
Bill Myers is a Colorado native living in Berthoud, who has been a successful Realtor for more than 46 years providing creative and solution based real estate for Coloradans since 1979. Call or text Bill at 970.578.1774 or learn more through his website at billmyersrealtor.com.
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